I head home after detention that day with a gallon of two percent milk and a loaf of bread. I decided to do some shopping. Not wanting the milk to spoil, I set my milk in my cooler and surround it with ice. I take a seat on a wooden stool I found abandoned on the side of the road some afternoon. It was missing part of a leg and so it rocked every time I sat down, but I loved it just the same.
I pull out a wrinkled folder from my backpack and the autographed picture falls to the floor. I smirk, remembering that day vividly. I find a roll of tape in a bucket and tape the picture to the wall furthest from my bed. Next to it is a picture of a house in Germany that I cut out from a travel brochure.
I often look at this wall, my wall of dreams. The wall holds pictures and papers of places I want to go, people I want to meet, and things I want to do. I've been continuously filling the wall for as long as I've lived here and I will continue to in the time I'm here. I hope in the meantime, that I'll be able to buy an apartment before I fill the space.
I dump out a jar of money onto my blanket and begin to count. "One...two...twelve...twenty..." I finish. "Twenty one dollars and seventy four cents." That should be enough to buy a decently warm jacket from the thrift store. I'd like to spend the money on food, but if I don't buy a jacket before it gets cold, I'm gonna wish I had. It would've been smart if I brought more clothes, but the day I walked out of my old home I had nothing but a small suitcase of clothes, twenty dollars, and a bag of canned food. I hadn't planned on leaving that day, but I knew I had to. I wanted to leave a week from then when I finished collecting my supplies, but I didn't have much of choice and I had to leave with what I gathered. I suppose it doesn't really matter now, I'm making do with what I have.
That night I didn't have to work. I already maxed out all the hours the child labor laws would allow me to. I didn't mind. I wasn't really in the mood to deal with anyone, anyways. I also had to catch up on homework before it got too dark and I could no longer see to do it. While studying the different types of epithelial tissues that evening, I often stared at the newest addition to my collage, the autographed picture. I can't make out what the signature says, but I want to. One day, I hope to laugh as much as I did that afternoon.
